


Let's Play Convict (Sherlock X Reader)

by whisperer96



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 221B Baker Street, BBC, F/M, I Don't Even Know, London, Murder, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Reader-Insert, Scotland Yard, Sorry Not Sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-08
Updated: 2014-09-08
Packaged: 2018-02-16 16:05:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2275971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whisperer96/pseuds/whisperer96
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Perhaps this game will entertain Sherlock...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Game Is On

There were two things you knew your alibi depended on:

1\. The amount of blood on your hands, and  
2\. The position of the dead body.

Unfortunately, the former was theoretical and the latter was dependant of the placement of the footprints in the snow and the time of death.  
Unfortunately for you, the footprints happened to lead to your feet, and happened to be from the same size foot as you.  
As unfortunate circumstances go, this was pretty high on your scale.  
And considering the presumed murder weapon had just dropped to the ground from your hands, slashing through the snow like the heart of the mangled corpse in front of you, the weight of this murder would surely land upon your head.

Retching was all your stomach could do to cope with the sight.

Bitterness stung through your limbs as you curled up in the snow, a broad tree offering support as a backrest whilst you found it impeccably hard to tear your eyes from such a bloody scene. Untouched snow became stained with a thousand rose petals of a broken heart, being soaked up like the ground needed supplementing with the blood of a sacrifice.  
You didn't know who the deceased had been before their departure from this cruel world, however it had filled up a vast amount of your thoughts processes thinking of the potential lives that had been ruined by his death.

Even as your face was being forced into the snow, your hands snapped behind your back, your legs restrained and muffled shouts ebbed their way into your ears, your mind was still stuck at the moment you first saw blood.

 

~~~

 

Tendrils of steam rising from the cafeteria cup of tea occasionally drifted into your field of vision as you stared blankly at the table. Your mind had become a process of drifting thoughts, leaving you unable to latch onto a specific trail as it left your conscious mind for good.  
The bland room was made even blander still by the lack of any features, apart from a conveniently placed mirror that managed to fill half the entire wall. Unexciting overalls left you feeling without identity as you felt the clamminess of your hands rehydrate the victims blood trapped in the creases of your casually calloused palms, catching on your metal restraints. It managed to become a swirling mix of art and disaster on the blue of your overalls, and made your reflection look like that of a horror movie psychopath.

SLAM.

Unflinching, you raised your vision slowly to meet the eyes of an over-exhausted inspector. His words didn't become sentences in your head, but then again, he didn't have anything remotely interesting to say.  
Your eyes dropped once more.  
The irritation in his voice managed to escape your hearing. It mean nothing to you. Nothing he did meant anything.  
He left the room.

~~~

The fifth time he came back, he was silent.  
Like a shark circling its prey, he slowly paced around you before sitting down.  
Steepled hands. Shallow breathing.

"Steven Tucker."

Your eyes flicked up instantly.  
Oh...this wasn't the inspector from before.  
You stared a little, an emotionless façade portraying nothing but the emptiness inside you.

"That was his name."

You paused ever so slightly before lowering your line of sight again. You had no words to say. It was not your place to speak.  
The steepled hands folded in on each other just within your vision.

"Did you kill him?" The depth of this voice kept catching you off-guard, pulling your focus towards what he was saying.  
"Did you kill Steven Tucker?"  
Your breathing made a noticeable change; only slightly, but very definitely there.  
"Did you kill this man?" A picture of said victim was thrust onto the table in front of you, and your efforts to avoid eye contact with the picture were in vain as it was forced into your line of sight.

The chair was thrown back as you emptied the scant remains of your last meal in the corner of the room, your stomach heaving with a gut-wrenchingly unavoidable pain.

The door shut behind you.  
You sat down. Alone.

~~~

Two hours of incessant ticking went by as you counted every second that passed.   
7200.  
And still you counted.  
And then you stopped.

The man from before might have been sat there for 1528 of the seconds you'd counted, but you'd only noticed now.

No.   
Your brain had noticed a while back. Your conscience had only just decided to pay the trivial matter any attention.

"I don't believe you killed him."

Your eyes narrowed as you stared at the impromptu feet covers you'd been forced to wear. Your mind couldn't quite decifer words correctly.

"Steven."

Your mind zoned out again. This was becoming an involuntarily reaction.

An awkward silence settled rather unpleasantly in the room. You managed to forget that anyone was there.

Crossing your legs on the chair, you placed your shackled hands on your ankles. Somehow, this made you feel secure.   
This was the first thing you'd felt for hours.


	2. First Move

It had been a few hours since you’d paid any attention to your surroundings. Staring at your handcuffs had been enough to occupy your distracted mind, but you hadn’t really known what you’d been staring at until you’d frowned.  
The cause of your frown was sitting cross-legged on the floor before your chair, head resting on their folded hands as they stared at your vacant expression.

“Do you remember?” The curly haired detective asked as soon as your brain became active again. You shook your head slowly, gripping onto your ankles as you stared down at the blue chair you were sat on.  
“How did it feel…plunging the knife in Steven’s chest, heart, neck-”  
Your head began to hurt. This was all…something…  
“Into his stomach, his face, his eyes-”

You might have whimpered, but whatever you’d done, the detective had stopped.

“Lestrade!” The man shouted, jumping up and walking away from you without turning away.  
He left the room, and your conscious thought processes left you.

~~~

It was a little while later that you were transferred to a proper holding cell, escorted by two uniformed police as you passed the two detectives that had interviewed you earlier, the darker haired one focused on how you stared subconsciously at him whilst the older grey-haired one mumbled words as equally as unimportant as the ones he’d asked you earlier.  
You couldn’t place a single finger on what was going through your mind, but you were sure a small part of you was preoccupied with the detective that was referred to as _Sherlock_.

~~~

You realised you hadn’t slept when the smell of toast filled the clammy air of the cell you were being kept in.  
A small plate sat just inside the door to your cell, but you weren’t inclined to move towards it. Eating was the very last thing on your mind, and it had already taken a lot of effort to drink the water you’d been given.  
Sitting forward, your back ached with the pain of leaning on a brick wall all night. That had been a mistake for sure, but your head ached too much for it to be processed as such.

Now you thought about your head, everything seemed to spin around you as you went to stand up.  
Needless to say, you didn’t stay standing for long.

~~~

It took a few seconds for your eyes to work as light flooded your senses, but you really wished you’d have stayed unconscious as the tall detective looked down upon you.  
No, not looked; stared.  
You blinked several times, going to sit up but realising that you were handcuffed to the hospital bed-

_**Hospital** bed_.

“You’re dehydrated.” He murmured as he looked over at the drip in your arm. He thought about mentioning the fact that you hadn’t eaten for a good while too but decided against it; it wasn’t unusual under the current circumstances to not want to eat.  
You glanced over at your left arm, eyes painfully aching as you tried to move them. Deciding it was better if you shut your eyes again, you sighed a little, the events of yesterday flashing through your conscious mind.

And just like that, you began to have a panic attack.

It was impossible to count the amount of doctors and nurses that held you down as a single pinprick pierced the first piece of skin that it could reach – which happened to be your wrist – and you began to lose your desperately weak grip on reality as you fell out of control of your limbs, falling further and further into a darkening abyss as the shouts and protests around you became distant echoes of a reality not desired, a final _sleep well_ indiscernible from the various voices but for a deep tone that your ears seemed to click onto.

~~~

“Hello (Y/n), can you hear me?”

There it was, that blinding light in your eyes again but from a different source. This was an intense beam coupled with an unfamiliar voice and it pulled you unwillingly from the darkness you’d started to enjoy.  
The face was unfamiliar too, but it seemed a lot more forgiving than that of the detective’s in the corner of the room, watching you intently like his hoard of gold.  
The unfamiliar person waved a hand in front of your face, lowering it instantly as you glared a deathly empty stare at them.  
He glanced at the familiar face before stepping back slightly, not exactly confident in his actions.  
“(Y/n)?” He asked again.  
“She won’t answer, John.” The familiar man rolled his eyes, huffing slightly to himself as he placed an arm on each chair arm.  
“Okay, um...” He stared at you, looking a little lost.  
After his head flicked a few more times between the detective and you, he stuttered out a question.  
“Do you- she...does she need anything?” He looked at the bored looking man who merely shrugged.  
“Okay...” The unsure man – John – hovered around a bit as he decided there wasn’t much he could really do.  
“Leave.” The other man stood up, gesturing to the door rather impatiently.  
“But Sherlock-”  
“Go.” _Sherlock_ gestured again, and John left the room with a few choice words under his breath, ignoring the looks Sherlock gave him.

You stared at Sherlock with a bemused expression although you weren’t quite sure why. He was a very unusual person, and the way he stared at you felt intruding on your personal space. It felt like he was reading more than you even knew existed, tearing you apart before you could even protest otherwise.  
“How are you feeling?” He asked, emotionless, arms behind his back.

You didn’t answer purely because you couldn’t quite think of how to form a sentence together.  
Not that Sherlock didn’t know this.

“Have a drink.”  
You looked to the small bedside table to your right, seeing the glass of water placed there.  
“Go on, you must be thirsty.” His tone was almost teasing, and admittedly your mouth was rather dry.  
The compulsion to reach for the glass overcame you and you gulped water down fairly fast as your throat rehydrated itself.

Wait...why weren’t you handcuffed?

You lowered the half-empty glass, staring at the emotionless detective as he stared back at you.  
“Hm.” He observed you slowly place the glass back on the table without talking your eyes off him, curiosity going both ways.  
“Steven-”  
You dropped the glass, your hand grasping on the air left behind.  
Sherlock looked almost cheerful as he left the room, leaving you more than a little mystified as you sank back down in the bed.

~~~

It was a few hours before anyone but the cleaners entered the room, the first person who wasn’t hospital staff being the older grey-haired detective.  
He seemed almost more vacant than you as his eyes ran across the room, many hours of unpaid overtime settling nicely on his eyes as he stifled a yawn.  
“Yeah.” He mumbled, walking out of the room again as his shoulder knocked the doorframe.

You frowned at the door as it shut, pouting like it was the door that confused you most.

~~~

23:11.

You were pretty sure it was past visiting hours when the peculiarly furtive detective entered your room, disrupting your attempt at sleep.

It was when he placed a pile of clothes on your bed that you properly became alert.

“Be quick, I don’t want to have to pay the cabbie overtime.” He narrowed his eyes out of the small windows in your room, moving around a little to get the best view of what he was trying to see.  
You stared at him, glowering. The clothes weren’t yours, but you were pretty sure they’d been someone else’s by the amount of wear the red coat and the black shoes had.

Sherlock glanced at you again, fixing his stare at you as he realised you weren’t getting changed.  
“I can’t imagine it will be long before they make another round of the ward, and I’m pretty sure we should be gone before then. Unless you want to escape like that.” He ran his eyes over your hospital gown, and you blinked.

It became a staring competition between you and the detective, Sherlock obviously oblivious to the word _‘privacy’_.  
You pursed your lips, realising he actually didn’t know what you wanted him to do.  
“Leave.” You said blankly.  
“But I’m helping you esc-”  
“No...can I have some privacy?”  
“Why?”  
“To get changed?” You pointed to the clothes and his eyes flicked between them and you.  
“Yes, they’re clothes.” He frowned.  
“You’re not going to watch me change, are you?”  
He stared at you whilst his brain processed the request.

He walked to the door slowly as he decided to act as watchman whilst you got dressed.

You pulled the cannula from your arm before standing up, your balance questionable as you pulled a black shirt over your head and pulled a pair of jeans on. They weren’t a perfect fit but you estimated that they’d been a spontaneous steal from a housemate or neighbours. He just seemed like that sort of person.

After you’d put the shoes, socks and coat on, you tapped Sherlock’s shoulder as he turned and grabbed your hand, yanking you out of the hospital room and into the largely empty corridors.  
“Keep quiet.” He whispered hastily, scanning the area out before pulling you towards the nearest fire exit. You allowed yourself to be dragged along, not really in a position to protest as you were taken outside of the building for the first time in seemingly days.

The fresh air was bitter on your skin, taking your mind back to that life-changing moment a few days back when you’d been found in the snow with Steven Tucker at your feet.  
As hard as you tried, the memories overwhelmed you as your feet got caught in the snow outside the hospital, grit largely mingled within the icy trigger of your traumatised memories.

“No, no! Now’s really not the time to zone out-” Sherlock spun around, fingers clicking in front of your face as your dazed state caused you to fall out of balance and into shock as your body became a paralyzed shell that held your disorientated soul.  
Sherlock sighed, heaving you over his shoulder as he ran towards the cab in the distance.

You really didn’t remember much after that.

~~~

“Ohh...” You winced, your head throbbing dramatically as the vague notion that Sherlock had hit your head on the taxi’s roof pulsed through your mind.  
It wasn’t impossible to sit up, but it wasn’t exactly easy either, pushing the blanket off you as you narrowed your eyes in the partial darkness. The curtains were still shut as sunlight peeked through, evidence that somebody wanted you to stay asleep for as long as possible.  
Unsteadily you stood up and walked to the door of the unfamiliar bedroom, quietly pulling the door open as you walked out into the apartment beyond.

Three pairs of eyes stared back at you, Sherlock jumping up from a small dark armchair with an unusually happy grin whilst a familiar face and an unfamiliar face stared at you from the table near him.  
“Sherlock...” John frowned, getting to his feet as the eyes of the woman opposite him widened. “Isn’t that (Y/n)?”  
“That’s where the _rest of my clothes went_.” The woman gave you a bemused expression, looking to Sherlock for answers.  
“What the hell is she doing here?” John turned to Sherlock, and he only smiled as he stood behind you with his hands on your shoulders.  
“Say hello, hi, do whatever _normal_ people do, shake hands!” He pushed you forward slightly. “She’ll be living with me for a while so best get the trivialities out the way.”  
“That’s (Y/n) off the news.” The woman pointed to you, hostility screaming from her words. “She’s a murderer-”  
“Mary, do you really think I’d kidnap a dangerous criminal to share a flat with me?”

She stared blankly at him.

“She’s not a murderer.” He insisted, hands leaving your shoulders.  
“Don’t I get a say in this?” You felt like curling up and crying and dying.  
“None whatsoever. Say hello then, I really would like to speed this process up.” He grabbed your hand and pulled it to John’s, shaking both hands together against both your wills as he then proceeded to do the same with Mary.  
The critical looks John and Mary gave you were enough to make you feel dizzy and out of tune again, and upon seeing this, Sherlock pulled you over to the sofa to sit, pulling a face at John and Mary.  
“She does this a lot.” He saw you fall back out of the corner of his eyes and walked off to the lab-bench-table in the kitchen to carry on a small experiment he’d started.

The married couple looked at each other and sighed before looking at you, John shaking his head. They knew better than to ask if Lestrade knew or not; when did Sherlock tell Lestrade anything?


	3. A New Player

You woke with an angered growl as you stopped yourself from opening your eyes too fast, becoming aware of what would set you off in a dazed psychotic episode that would leave you unconscious for several hours.  
“Don’t try anything.”

Click.

“A gun...” You weakly processed, opening one eye to confirm your suspicions.  
“Don’t think I won’t shoot.”  
“Mary...is that your name...?”  
She glanced away, clearly uncomfortable that you’d said her name.  
“I’m sorry.” You couldn’t for the life of you remember why, though. “I feel like I should be sorry...”  
“If there’s anyone you should be apologising to its Steven Tucker’s parents.” She muttered quickly, the gun wavering slightly.  
“No.” You sat forward. “I-...no. I’m sorry for blacking out. Again...”  
She became muted, lowering the gun as you sat up properly on the sofa.  
“I’ve been doing that a lot lately.” You frowned slightly to yourself, blinking once or twice. It was very hard to use your mind consciously without remembering-  
“Sherlock’s mad bringing you here...” She muttered, a small critical smile eliciting some kind of laugh from you.  
She gave you a questioning look, and you shook your head.  
“Sorry, it’s just...many people have told me that I’m mad.”  
“We’re all mad here.” She couldn’t help but smile, turning away just as an ageing woman knocked twice on the door.

“Sorry to intrude, just wanted to see how Sherlock’s guest was doing. She seemed to be completely out of it when he brought her home last night.” Her voice was full of concern, glancing at you with a pitiful look.  
Mary gave a pursed lipped smile as her eyes shut, placing the gun on the table to her left with a sigh.  
“We’re fine Mrs H.” She dropped her head. “Just give us ten minutes.”  
“Are you sure? A good cup of tea-”  
“(Y/n), would you like a cup of tea?” Mary asked as if it was protocol.  
“Uh...actually...that might be good.” You smiled at the woman in the doorway, her kindly but serious face beaming at you.  
“And Mary,” Her tone was like an irritated parents. “Don’t just leave guns lying about; anything could happen.” She trotted off as Mary huffed quietly, about to defend herself but deciding against it.

You smiled sheepishly, raising your eyebrows apologetically. Mary rolled her eyes in return.  
“Mrs Hudson is Sherlock’s houseke-...landlady. She’s Sherlock’s landlady.”  
“Who makes tea?”  
“Sherlock would probably starve to death or dehydrate if Mrs Hudson wasn’t here.” Mary’s voice conveyed her disappointment in Sherlock, much like a disappointed parent.  
“Where is Sherlock?” You were becoming uneasy whenever he wasn’t present, which was a very bad thing. That meant your emotions were getting the better of you and that you were becoming emotionally invested in him, and that made you vulnerable.  
“Sherlock has gone to try and convince Lestrade that you’re not here.”  
“Will it work?”  
“You’ve got more chance of taking Mycroft’s umbrella...sorry; you don’t know who Mycroft is.”  
“Mycroft...?”  
“He’s Sherlock’s arch-enemy.”  
“Who has an umbrella?”  
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen him without it.”  
“Why does he carry it?”  
“I don’t know why Mycroft does anything.” She smiled to herself, glancing at her gun.

That glance at her gun told you more than you’d admit to knowing, but nothing it had told you even phased you. You weren’t one to judge.

“Where’s John?” You asked, glancing around and realising a third person was missing from the equation.  
“He’s gone with Sherlock; says he might help convince Lestrade to let you stay here.”  
“But you’re against me being here...”

She was silent, picking her words carefully.

“The best I can do is say I trust Sherlock’s judgement.” She almost looked apologetic towards you.  
Almost.  
There was still a very cynical person sitting deep inside.  
You nodded, knowing that just trusting Sherlock took a lot of effort on her behalf when her own judgement was screaming out for her to avoid you.  
“Thanks.” You said quietly, not quite a whisper, but quiet enough for both you and Mary to hear a commotion at the door downstairs.

“Sherlock.” You both echoed as a scuffling of feet pushed through the hallway and forced itself up the stairs.  
You could just hear Mrs Hudson reprimanding the stompers as Lestrade burst into the room, pointing at you with rushed breaths.  
“Sherlock!” He had to lean over to catch his breath, standing up again and leaning on the wall. “Sher...Sherlock!”  
“Don’t act so surprised.” Sherlock strolled in the room casually, followed by John and a very peeved looking detective who you hadn’t met before.  
“Hmm, looks like she’s just escaped from the hospital.” The new detective gave you a look of utter hate as she looked back to Sherlock.  
“I tried to stop them...” John gaped to Mary and she nodded in understanding, taking his hand.  
“Donovan, shut it.” Lestrade pointed to the hateful detective, and she rolled her eyes.  
“You can’t seriously still be on Sherlock’s side-”  
“We don’t have sides-” Lestrade began.  
“(Y/n) is perfectly safe here-” Sherlock cut in.  
“It’s not (Y/n)’s safety I’d be worrying about.” Lestrade muttered under his breath.  
“If you’re wondering, there’s not going to be a bloodbath here if you leave her.” Sherlock put his serious face on, almost pleading with puppy-dog eyes to Lestrade.  
“No, but Sherlock, you can’t be sure.” Lestrade measured his words out as if speaking to a child, gesticulating with his hands to hold Sherlock’s attention.  
“If it really helps, I’ll drug her tea so she won’t wake up in the night.” Sherlock tried, and you gasped less than quietly  
“Drug me?!” You squealed.  
“Not because I don’t trust you.” Sherlock said quickly over his shoulder.

You sat there with your mouth a little agape in shock as Mrs Hudson totted back in carrying a tray which held a teapot, a small bowl of sugar and two teacups.  
Everyone temporarily silenced themselves as she placed the tray on the table next to Mary, whispering how she’d brought a spare cup just in case before walking briskly away again.

And everyone started again all at once.

Tea didn’t seem as appetising to you as it did a few minutes ago as you eyed Sherlock suspiciously, slouching back in the settee as you zoned out of the argument.  
Donovan fought viciously against leaving you with Sherlock, but – like Mary – Lestrade tended to trust Sherlock’s better judgement, even if he was reserved about the decision.

You blinked, realising Lestrade and Donovan had left the flat as Sherlock sat on his dark armchair, observing you as he crouched with his legs beneath him, hands steepled like the first time you’d seen him sit opposite you in the bleak and very extremely glum interview room.  
You frowned, seeing how Mary and John were gone too.  
“When did everyone go?”  
“John and Mary left about ten minutes ago.”  
“Lestrade and...uh...Donovan?”  
“They left precisely three hours eighteen minutes ago.”  
“Oh...” You pointed your toes, noticing now how it had started to go pretty dark outside.  
“What’s the last thing you remember?”  
“Before I...zoned out?”  
“Yes, the exact last thing you remember; what is it?” Sherlock jumped off the chair, kneeling in front of you quicker than you could shift away.  
You stared at him awkwardly, pouting at his continuously steepled hands.  
“Donovan, I think...I don’t know. I think...”  
“Yes?”  
“Something about St-” Sherlock held you up by your shoulders, frowning as he moved to look in the centre of your eyes.  
“Steven Tucker?”  
“Ye-...yeah...” You nodded once, only still sitting up due to Sherlock’s support. You were pretty sure your throat would close up if you tried to say anything else, so you were partially thankful that Sherlock seemed to be satisfied with your answer as he jumped up and left you to fall backwards.

Oh no...not again...

~~~

It almost seemed instantaneous, the blinding darkness that swamped your vision with flickering lights. Even if you opened your eyes as wide as they’d go, you couldn’t see much in what seemed to be Sherlock’s flat, shadows obscuring everything but a small strip of light in the curtains to your right.  
“Sherlock...?” You called out in the dark, only just becoming aware of an object in your hand.  
Looking down, it was hard to discern the shape of the knife you held, but it was pretty obvious that it was pretty sharp.

It didn’t even cross your mind how it had gotten there because your subconscious had already figured it out, triggering an automatic reaction that compelled you to stand up and march to the room you’d first woken up in; Sherlock’s room.

He was already sitting up in the bed - cross-legged – waiting for your imminent arrival.  
“Sherlock.” You stabbed the knife in the wall and it stayed there. “Why?”  
He had his eyes shut, hands clasped and folded as he thought.  
“Sherlock.” You tried with a heavier tone. “Why did you put **that** knife,” You pointed to the knife in question, “In my hand whilst I was sleeping?”  
He murmured an answer, still in deep thought, and you sighed lightly.  
“What was that?”  
“I didn’t.”  
“Don’t play that game with me.” You crossed your arms, standing at the foot of the bed. “What,” Your voice began to sound broken and weak, clearly unable to enforce much authority right now, “Are you trying to do to me?”  
“You, nothing.” He jumped forwards, grabbing your wrist before you could pull away just like he had in the hospital.  
He ran to the door, pulling you over the edge of the bed and forcing you to quickly find your feet as he pulled you out of the room and down the stairs.  
“What th-” You tried to pull away but his grip was strong and merciless.  
The stairs passed beneath you like the sort of long carpet you’d find in a hotel lobby, leading into the corridors beyond.

The corridors beyond, however, contained a single man standing there, leaning precariously on an umbrella as his head lifted up lazily.  
“There must be a reason you called me here, brother dearest.”  
“Mycroft...?” You yanked your wrist free of Sherlock’s grip, stepping towards Mycroft with a new-found curiosity. “You’re Sherlock’s brother?”  
“Who told you about Mycroft?” Sherlock frowned heavily.  
“Mary.” You shrugged, stepping closer to Mycroft as you met his irritated gaze. “Why are you here-...no, wait...let me guess...” You shut your eyes for a fleeting moment before a smile beamed across your face. “Cameras, you must have CCTV installed around the apartment, and you saw me head towards Sherlock’s room with the knife but you **must have known** Sherlock had _given_ me the knife; you’d have seen it, so...Sherlock planted the knife to grab your attention so you’d come and see if Sherlock was okay and that I hadn’t stabbed him, but you knew I wouldn’t stab him because you’d have brought backup if you’d have thought otherwise.”

Mycroft breathed a barely noticeable sigh of distaste as Sherlock smiled smugly to himself, both mostly unseen by you.

“Was I right?” You tried, looking between the Holmes brothers.  
“You have admirable deduction skills,” Mycroft admitted. “However, jumping to conclusions whilst there are still other possibilities to explore is the mistake of beginners.”  
“You were wrong.” Sherlock clarified.  
“Then how-”  
“He text me.” Mycroft raised his chin.  
“But why-”  
“It was an experiment.” Sherlock muttered, afraid that he’d lose all the trust you’d invested in him.  
“An experiment...on me?”  
Mycroft glanced at his younger brother, knowing that yet again he himself would be considered the _bad guy_ in all Sherlock’s relations.  
With a sigh, Mycroft began to speak.  
“I think we should take a walk.” Mycroft picked up his umbrella as he turned slightly towards the front door, and with a final beatific smile directed at Sherlock, you turned and followed Mycroft out of 221B.

~~~

“This isn’t really what I’d call a walk.” You looked around Mycroft’s office at the Diogenes Club as you lowered yourself in the chair opposite him, feeling very closed off by the mostly blank expression he gave you. The small fraction of him that felt anything was guilt, but you couldn’t process why.  
“I find it’s easier to take a journey with words.” Mycroft swirled the glass in his hand lazily. “That way we might actually get somewhere.”  
“Experiment, talk.” You folded your arms tersely, a fierce pout on your face.  
“Do you remember your life before Steven Tucker?” Mycroft asked calmly, staring at your gradually befuzzled expression.  
“Of course I do.” You said blankly.  
“Go on then; where did you live?”  
“I _live_ in Gower Street-”  
“No (Y/n), that’s where you _used_ to live.”  
“No-”  
“Yes. You moved into 221C Baker Street roughly about a week ago.”  
“No I didn’t!”  
“Yes you did.”  
“I swear I didn’t-”  
“More or less a week of your memory is unrecallable to you-”  
“I remember everything-”  
“No you don’t.” He smiled. “But then again, how would you remember?”  
“Stop it-”  
“You are the test subject of an experiment we’d rather keep under wraps-”  
“We?” You fumed.  
“Me, Sherlock and a few others; no-one else that concerns you.”  
“Sherlock knew?” You couldn’t help but sound more than a little hurt.  
“It was vital that he knew.” Mycroft suddenly became very serious for the briefest of moments. “It’s not as if experimenting on his new neighbour would go unnoticed.”  
“Why me, though? What experiment?” You were on the edge of breaking now, sitting forward as daggers left your eyes and stabbed Mycroft.  
Mycroft, as always, wasn’t fazed by your glare.  
“Admittedly it took a while to pick the perfect candidate for this... _experiment_...and when you moved into 221C and caught our attention, it was almost as if you begged to be the subject.”  
“What experiment?” You demanded no messing about, and Mycroft looked at the glass in his hand like it was suddenly very interesting.  
“No doubt you’ve heard of biological warfare? Using diseases, viruses, etcetera as-”  
“I **have** heard.”  
“Good.” He smiled a malevolent smile. “That should make explaining this a little easier, though I doubt you’d have much trouble understanding technical terms if I wished to use them.”  
“What experiment?” You repeated, sitting back a little.  
“A few of my _friends_ , shall we say, needed to test a drug on a test subject in the _real world_. Obviously, the subject needed to be in an observable environment, and preferably be under near-constant observation by a scientist – of a sort.”  
“So you used Sherlock?”  
“ _Used_ is such a strong word. Sherlock was quite happy to participate in the experiment; he was as curious as everyone else was.”  
“ _Was?_ ”  
“You saw his face before you left; he wished we’d have chosen a different subject other than you.”  
“Why? What’s it done to me?”  
“Before you were given the drug, you were a perfectly ordinary human being living a life that was as repetitive as the next. There was nothing remotely special about you; you were just what we were looking for. What are you now?”  
“Not what I was...”  
“What _**are**_ you?”  
“A test subject-”  
“What **are _you_**?”  
“...A murderer.”  
“And why are you a murderer?”  
“Because I killed a man!” Your eyes welled up, curling up tightly on the chair as you buried your head in your knees.  
“And why did you kill a man?”  
“I don’t know, I don’t know!”  
“But you _did_ know-”  
“I didn’t, I don’t remember anything-”  
“You killed him in self-defence-”  
“I didn’t-”  
“You killed him because you knew it was vital he didn’t get his hands on the drug inside you-”  
“NO-”  
“You signed the contract allowing us to use you as a test subject-”  
“NO!”  
“You knew that the drug sent the person on the receiving end into a state of delirium and you killed Steven Tucker to prevent a widespread epidemic that would have brought down the nation-”  
“No PLEASE-”  
“I’m sorry but it’s **true**!” Mycroft sat forwards, seeing a vaguely familiar distant look wash over your eyes before they clicked back to him.

You were gripping onto the arms of the chair desperately tight as your eyes looked like that of a deer in the headlights, wide and panic-stricken and afraid.  
“No... _no_...no...” You shook your head, knees curled up and scared of what you might do.  
“I suppose I can provide some consolation in the fact that we don’t know if you were going through a delirious state or not when you killed him.”  
“And that’s meant to console me?!” You jumped up, pointing accusingly at Mycroft. He looked away and sighed, folding and unfolding a hand as he reached for the glass he’d placed down.  
“It’s the best I can do.” He said, his words heavy as you turned away and stormed to the door.

And you froze.

“Is the experiment still going on?” You asked softly, drawing nonsense patterns on the wooden door.  
Mycroft muttered an ‘ _If you wish it to_ ’ as he took a sip of his drink, something definitely stronger needed right now.  
“Is the delirium random?”  
“As far as we can tell.”  
“So I’m a danger to the public?”  
“You’re a danger to the people who threaten you.”  
“And everyone else?”  
He was silent, refusing to answer the last question as you nodded.  
“Can I go back to Baker Street?”  
“For now.”

You left the Diogenes Club with a messed up mind, not knowing truly what had happened a few days ago.

~~~

Sherlock found you burrowing through the boxes you were yet to unpack in 221C, pulling out a duvet from one box and a pillow from another as you curled yourself up in the corner of the living room.  
He felt that he should say something but he knew words would fail him if he tried to fix what he’d broken, so he decided on saying “I thought you should know I told John and Mary whilst you were sleeping.”

You stared into the centre of the room, not sure you’d taken in his words as he walked out, leaving you alone with a lot of dangerous thoughts.

~~~

The next day was spent placing your belongings out properly in 221C, making it a place to live in whilst avoiding anyone else entirely for the whole day.

You didn’t remember painting the walls with the words ‘ **FORGIVE HER** ’ repeatedly.

~~~

It was Mrs Hudson who’d been the unfortunate soul to first discover the state of delirium you’d fallen into.  
She’d practically ran out of your flat screaming as Sherlock, Mary and John had ran down the stairs and into 221C, the Watson’s jaws dropping as Sherlock’s eyes widened ever so slightly.

Sitting in the centre of the floor with the words ‘FORGIVE HER’ written backwards on your forehead in black marker pen, you rocked slightly as Sherlock sat in front of you.

John and Mary stared at the words in question written in blue paint all over the white walls, not knowing what to feel for you or your confused and irreversibly damaged mind.

Sherlock couldn’t help arch his eyebrows in sympathy as he sat in front of you, searching your expressionless eyes for any sign of conscious life.  
John stood next to him, kneeling to see your eyes too as Mary kneeled the opposite side of Sherlock.  
“(Y/n), can you hear us?” John tried, Mary waving a hand in front of your face.  
“It’s Mary and John. And Sherlock.” Mary tried, clicking her fingers a few times in front of your face.  
“We’re here to help.” John’s voice was soft and coaxing but you didn’t even blink.  
“Give me a few minutes. Alone. With her.” Sherlock mumbled as he stared at you.  
“Why-”  
“Please?” Sherlock gave John his best puppy-dog eyes, and John rolled his eyes as he and Mary stood up.  
“We understand you’re shy when it comes to saying sorry.” John smirked a bit as he left the room, and Sherlock stopped himself retorting an answer as he waited to hear the door click shut behind him.

When he was fairly sure that John and Mary would have gotten too bored to wait and listen through the door to what he was going to say, he pursed his lips tightly as he figured out what he needed to say.

When he did speak, his words sounded fractionally broken like yours.

“This shouldn’t have happened to you – or anyone.” He said quietly, anxiously fidgeting his hands. “I didn’t know what the drug was, not properly. Mycroft said it was confidential. I figured out what the major symptoms of it would be though...” He breathed out, catching his breath mid-way. He was terrible at this stuff, and maybe he was just looking for some sort of confirmation that he was at least partially forgiven.  
Not that he’d find any here, right here right now.

He didn’t really want to apologise for letting you sign the contract you’d quite happily signed. He didn’t want to apologise for letting you murder Steven Tucker either.  
He wanted to apologise for manipulating you into trusting him at Scotland Yard, at the hospital, at Baker Street.  
For telling you that you weren’t a murderer.

“I’m sorry.”  
It was all he could manage without becoming unstable himself. He’d assisted in the creation of a murderer and he really didn’t know what to think, and somehow, that was getting to him too.

You blinked once after he’d left the room, grasping the carpet beneath you tightly in your nails.

“I forgive you.”


End file.
